


Broken Records

by ArcticLucie



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Implied Sexual Content, Kissing, Love at First Sight, Lust at First Sight, M/M, Meet-Cute, Stiles Stilinski is a Little Shit, mechanical bull riding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-13
Updated: 2019-09-13
Packaged: 2020-10-17 10:09:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20619281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArcticLucie/pseuds/ArcticLucie
Summary: The kid looked lanky as hell—all legs and lean arms, and fingers that went on for days. So never in his wildest dreams did Derek expect this boy, for lack of a better descriptor, to break his record on the mechanical bull at the Wolf Den Bar. But that’s exactly what he did.





	Broken Records

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little something I had sitting around in my drafts.
> 
> Enjoy!

The kid looked lanky as hell—all legs and lean arms, and fingers that went on for _days_. So never in his wildest dreams did Derek expect this _ boy _, for lack of a better descriptor, to break his record on the mechanical bull at the Wolf Den Bar. But that’s exactly what he did.

It had taken Derek months to master the wild robotic beast the locals affectionately called Diablo, weekend after weekend of Erica and Boyd dragging him out and supplying him with just enough free shots to loosen his inhibitions. Then he’d climb up, leather tie lacing through his fingers, and give the crowd a show.

The first time he’d looked like a fish out of water, as Erica had put it, gasping for air with every buck while he tried his best to hang on for dear life. He might’ve agreed if she hadn’t recorded it and posted that shit on Insta. But week after week, he held on for a few seconds longer, his technique undergoing refinement with every ride, until he’d broken the longstanding record and tamed the Devil. He’d gone from dying fish to apex predator. 

When the DJ called his name that night, he moseyed on up to take his weekly ride. The patrons roared to life when he slipped over the padding and approached Diablo, He rolled his eyes—as was tradition—when Erica hooted for him to take his shirt off. “Not that kind of bar,” he’d told her a thousand times, but he held his tongue tonight, knowing a reply only worked to rile her up more, and the already rambunctious crowd didn’t need any encouragement. 

He looked at his name scrawled on a small chalkboard next to his longest time of one minute and 17 seconds, and centered himself as the bull burst to life between his thighs. He didn’t break a minute tonight, but he got pretty close. The time mattered little, the adrenaline rush far more enjoyable than his need to shatter his own record.

He probably should have acknowledged how much he looked forward to Saturday nights, not to the crowds or the alcohol or his friends—okay, maybe a little bit his friends—but to the minute or so he’d rage against the machine. Somewhere along the way, it had morphed from a determination to prove himself to the best part of his week. He could forget about all his worries for a moment and _ become one with the universe _ or some equally new aged shit like that.

But if he took a moment to be truly honest with himself, it was the closest thing he’d had to sex in a very, very looooong time. Not in some perverted “I’m getting off on this vibrating saddle” as it bucked him around kind of way. More like he needed a release, some kind of physical stimuli that could melt the tension out of every inch of his body, and Diablo acted as a stand-in until he found, well, whatever the universe wanted him to find.

So he did his best not to over analyze things.

“That all ya got, big guy?” a silken voice asked as Derek hopped back over the padded barrier, a freshly deposited sheen of sweat on his brow. He looked up and fell right into a sticky trap set by eyes as rich as honey and just as sweet. Derek wanted to _ taste _, but he chided himself because weird. “Here, Lyds, hold my beer.”

The aforementioned _ Lyds_ took the stem of his cocktail glass between two pristinely manicured nails looking unimpressed. “This is a magic mojito, not a beer.” 

“Lydia, you’re embarrassing me,” the guymanboy whatever, whined with a pleading tilt of his head.

“I’m not the one who ordered a cocktail just because it had cotton candy in it. You could’ve just asked the bartender for some.”

Derek could smell the sickly-sweet pink beverage from several feet away as he watched the two argue back and forth. He didn’t know whether to slip away or continue his fall into those soft brown eyes. And of course, words failed him, not that he could’ve said much in the midst of their bickering.

“Uh, S-Stiles? Is there a Stiles in the crowd?” the DJ asked, and the boy—man, he ordered a drink, so twenty-one at least—turned and held up his hand. 

“Yeah, that’s me.”

Derek watched as Stiles launched himself over the barrier with the grace of a gazelle… until he flailed and tumbled down onto the safety mats, not unlike a baby giraffe trying and failing to take its first steps.

He jumped to his feet, holding up his hands, “I’m okay.”

Not that Derek cared about his record, but no way this <strike> kid </strike> Stiles would last more than two seconds. Derek almost felt bad. Almost. He crossed his arms and shifted his weight to his back foot bracing himself for the upcoming carnage. A tiny huff of laughter escaped him when Stiles nearly slid right off the other side of the bull when he mounted it.

“I don’t think your boyfriend knows what he’s getting himself into,” Derek said to Lydia, not looking her way, his gaze transfixed on the lithe fingers wrapping themselves around the leather strap.

He heard her sigh before answering in a dull yet fond tone. “Not my boyfriend, and nope, never does.”

“This should be quick,” came Erica’s voice from over his shoulder as Stiles gave a thumbs up to the bull operator.

Diablo thundered to life, and he thought he heard Stiles squeal with the jolt. Derek expected to blink and miss him go flying off onto the mats, but his expectations had a way of twisting in on themselves. Instead, the seconds ticked by, too fast and too slow, the same as they did when he rode. Well, not exactly the same considering he had the capacity to think in the moment.

And so he thought, about the arch of Stiles’s back when the bull reared up, about the sudden flash of abs it exposed from under a plaid shirt, about how he knew the way every muscle in Stiles’s body flexed and pulled with each sudden change in speed and direction. He knew how crushingly hard Stiles’s thighs had to grip the sides of the saddle and how desperately his shoulders needed to work to keep him upright.

Which naturally led to thoughts of them in bed, of Diablo replaced by Derek as Stiles rode him from above. He’d dig his fingertips into the flesh of Stiles’s hips hard enough to leave bruises, hypnotized by the undulation of his body, helping to raise him up so he could pound Derek down into the mattress, like a cowboy taming a wild stallion, though he had no idea who was which.

He’d watched a thousand people ride that bull, but none of them had ever affected him that way. It both thrilled and terrified him as the seconds ticked by: two, three, five, ten, thirty, sixty. He couldn’t look away, couldn’t catch his breath, couldn’t stop imagining himself in Diablo’s place.

“Holy shit,” Erica hooted. “I think he’s going for your record.”

His eyes darted to the clock and back, but he didn’t register the number. A cheer of “Stiles” weaved its way through the bar, and the DJ had just enough time to scream “He did it!” before Stiles went tumbling head over feet onto the mats.

“We have a new champion,” the DJ continued. “One nineteen!”

“I did not see that coming,” said Erica, sounding about as shocked as Stiles looked.

Neither did he. Everyone would expect him to get angry, but he couldn’t feel anything but the burning embers sprouting in the pit of his stomach and spreading like wildfire at the sight of Stiles on his back, tongue darting out the corner of his mouth—his sinfully _divine _mouth—chest heaving and cheeks colored ruby red. 

Derek watched as surprise rippled across Stiles’s face before a smug smirk chased it away. Stiles strutted across the mats and slid over the barrier greeted by a group of drunk frat boys waiting for high fives. A few seconds later, he pushed through the bodies to where he and Lydia stood, taking his mojito from her and throwing it back in one go.

“That was awesome!” Stiles panted, still breathless from the ride. “Guess there’s a new sheriff in town.”

Derek rolled his eyes having broken free from whatever spell Stiles had cast over him. “Won’t be for long,” he challenged with a lift of his brow.

Before Stiles could reply, the DJ whisked him and Lydia away to award him his prize of a t-shirt and a beer. Derek did _ not _ watch him scrunch up his nose when he took a sip, so he could _ not _ have found it endearing. The guy had just broken his record, after all. And okay maybe he cared about it a little, so the titillating feeling racing through his veins had to have stemmed from a budding rivalry and _ NOT _ the lust swirling around his head.

“Gonna get his number?” Erica asked, drawing his attention.

Derek blinked at her.

“Oh my god! Do I have to do everything for you?” she huffed before taking his arm and dragging him over to the bar where Stiles stood. His eyes locked onto Stiles’s, and he’d never been more grateful for the thumping bass that filtered out half the words she said, though he knew it had something to do with him being too stupid to ask if he could buy Stiles a drink.

He didn’t know what had happened to Erica and Boyd after that, or Lydia for that matter, but he couldn’t find it in him to care. His world had compressed into the long fingers fisted in his Henley, and he knew he shouldn’t have let yet another person drag him through the crowd, but he couldn’t say he minded all that much when they stumbled out the back and into the alley, because then Stiles crushed their lips together and nothing else mattered.

Derek groaned when his back slammed against the wall, and as it turned out, the lanky little shit had more muscle than it seemed. He could feel them thrumming beneath his fingers as he worked them under the back of Stiles’s shirt, their bodies shifting and contorting until they fit together like the universe had cut them from the same cloth, or perhaps fashioned them from the dust from the same expanse of stars. 

Stiles tasted like sugar, his lips stained a bright pink when Derek pulled back. A whiny moan pierced the air between them, and he honestly had no idea who it came from. “I don’t usually do this,” he whispered, a bashful flush creeping up his neck.

“Do what? Pick people up at bars? Make out in dark allies?” Stiles asked before a crooked grin pulled at the corner of his mouth. “Lose?”

Derek scoffed as he rolled his eyes. “You beat me by two seconds.”

“Yep.” Stiles threw his head back as he laughed, and Derek wished he could’ve tasted that too. When the laughter died down, Stiles rubbed the tip of his nose against Derek’s—soft Eskimo kisses somehow more intoxicating than Stiles’s mouth—and rasped, “I know something else I can beat you at by two seconds.”

Stiles rolled his hips and a shockwave of all-consuming hunger for more washed over him, barreling through his senses like a tsunami. His knees threatened to buckle when Stiles’s nails raked over his scalp, goosebumps tumbling all the way down his spine. He could’ve fallen apart so easily thanks to the dry spell he found himself in, but he had to give Stiles some credit. The man had skillz.

It took Derek a second to catch up to the game, Stiles’s wicked mouth doing dangerous things to his neck, but then he began his counter attack. He hooked his hands behind Stiles’s knees and lifted him up, spinning them around and pinning him to the wall. A low chuckle rumbled in his chest when Stiles half moaned, half groaned at getting a taste of his own medicine.

After that, it was literally a race to the finish, hands slipping into jeans and teeth nipping at skin. The heat from Stiles’s breathy pants settled around him like his favorite blanket, and he had a fleeting thought that Diablo had nothing on this. Whatever void he used that bull to fill now burst at the seams full of Stiles: his smell, his taste, the hypnotic sway of his hips. And Derek wanted to keep him, break every record he’d ever set with anyone else and replace them with unbreakable ones with Stiles.

He had no idea who won in the end, his brain too clouded with Stile-induced euphoria. He wiped his sticky hand on his jeans, making a mental note not to go back inside with the black lights, while Stiles clung to him like wet tissue paper. They stood there for a bit, pulling themselves back together and exchanging languid kisses, each one tangling him further and further in Stiles’s web.

“I demand a rematch,” Stiles protested as he draped his arms loosely around Derek’s neck.

Derek let out a mocking sigh. “Fine, how’s next Friday?”

“How ‘bout tomorrow?” Stiles countered.

He answered in the form of a kiss, and he had a feeling it left Stiles just as dizzy with excitement and anticipation as it did him.

“I just have one question," Derek said after reluctantly breaking the kiss to catch his breath. "How did you learn to ride a mechanical bull like that?”

Stiles hung his head and looked up at him through his lashes. “Truth?”

Derek nodded.

“I’ve never ridden one before. I just got stuck. I couldn’t get my hand free or I woulda jumped off as soon as the damn thing turned on.”

They dissolved into a giggling mess at Stiles’s confession, honest to god _ giggles _. Derek blamed the alcohol.

“Maybe I just have a knack for it,” Stiles continued with a wiggle of his brows.

“Hmm, guess I need more practice,” he purred, a triumphant smile forming on his lips when Stiles shivered at the implication.

“I can totally help with that.”

* 

In the end, Derek didn’t break Stiles’s record. He tied it, and it only took a month of very intense _ training, _ which he considered fair since Stiles had spent a considerable amount of time at his apartment helping him perfect his technique.


End file.
